Welcome to the New Universe
by thechroniclerofthehouse
Summary: This is my take on what would have happened after Arthur took over the House and Secondary Realms. For starters, he'd have made it a different way. How? Read on.
1. Chapter 1

Dear Mr. Albus Dumbledore,

I am the New Architect. The manner in which this letter has reached you has doubtless established me as a figure of considerable means, which I am. The intent of this letter is to enlist you as one of my most trusted lieutenants in the running of an extremely large corporation, the size of which, as a matter of fact, is several times that of the known universe, and in fact transcends death itself.

In fact, Mr. Dumbledore, I am the closest to a God you will ever encounter in your life. I am the (New) Architect of your universe, and indeed all universes. I am offering you a position close to the top. Imagine the perks, Mr. Dumbledore, if you will: millions of immortal wizards (sorcerers, actually, but you seem to prefer the former) to teach, unlimited resources at your disposal, and magic that can potentially rearrange reality. And, of course, the aforementioned immortality.

The telephone that I enclose is the only way to contact me. If you wish to speak with me, please dial 97341504. Understand, however, that there are others to whom I have extended the same invitation. If the telephone disappears, it will mean that others have already accepted my offer. Thus, if you truly want this position, do not hesitate to call me and enquire.

Yours,

The New Architect (Arthur Penhaligon)

* * *

Dear Albus,

Thank you for your letter. I have adjusted my format accordingly and enclose a pamphlet explaining everything.

Best,

The New Architect (please do call me Art)

Greetings, future Morrow Day! – a pamphlet for candidates

**(© Lower House Press, **1395758657819463974651293562197532572836589276** years of excellence)**

First lesson: Who is the New Architect and what is the structure of this "company"?

The New Architect is the Architect of Everything. This Everything is actually a massive Firm, or Firmament, that stretches all throughout the Void of Nothing, as far as the eye can see. It's expanding all the time. But everything must start from something, right? Nothing is that something. The Void is a great repository of this substance called Nothing. It's what makes up everything. Atoms, molecules, nucleons- those came later.

So the New Architect created the first Realm, for tangible beings, another Realm, for imagination, and another, for intangible beings. You know the first as the one you're currently living in. The second is what takes your creativity, your imagination, and creates more Realms, flimsy though they may be, and the third? Well, that's Death. The Hereafter.

The second has always existed. There will be no more of that. Of the third, the New Architect has to create more. Always. You see, when tangible beings die, they go to the third Realm. But this third Realm has limited space, and the morality of these beings became more and more complicated. So there.

Now, the First Realm, now that's interesting.

See, the inhabitants of the First imagined. And when they Imagined, the Second Realm took their creativity, their fictional ideas, and created Subsidiaries of that First, only changed. If the people of the First put that idea out and other people read it and added their belief, their fear, their hopes and dreams and loves and anger and _emotion_ into the idea, then that Realm would become more and more real, as it were. And in _that_ Realm, more and more of what happened in the original one would happen, creating more and more sub-sub-Realms, and so on and so forth.

The House is where you will be working.

Second lesson: Who are the Morrow Days? And why is the New Architect New?

Before the New Architect, there was an old Universe. That old Universe was just one: a House, and Secondary Realms. Nothing imagined was real elsewhere. The Architect who ruled that Universe was vindictive and uptight. Her servants were the Morrow Days. When they disobeyed her regarding her Will, which demanded that an Heir be found (and one _was_ found- the current New Architect)- she cursed them with desires and flaws that fatally warped the Universe. And so it died.

But the New Architect rebuilt it, better than ever, and **you** have been selected to be part of this elite group.

Of the Morrow Days, they are:

Lady Sunday, a position already taken by the New Architect's closest confidante, Suzy Turquoise Blue (**_AND GIRLFRIEND, THANK YOU VERY MUCH- Suzy_**)

Saturday, a chiefly educational position, used to train the inhabitants of the House to do various things- invention takes place here, but mostly abstract subjects, not cold fusion or other such things

Friday, concerned with aesthetics, the arts and beauty in the Firm

Thursday, to maintain order in the Firmament

Wednesday, to transport inhabitants of the House from it to elsewhere

Tuesday, who manufactures practical things like weaponry and furniture and innovates new things

Monday, a seat which covers everything else, but mostly bureaucratic matters like policy, contracts and records

Third lesson: How do I become a Morrow Day, and why me?

Simple. You call the New Architect with the phone and tell him that you want the job. If someone else has it, the phone won't be there.

He will arrive and bring you to your Demesne, the place you will stay and direct for the rest of your immortal life- for the most part. When he leaves, everyone who remembers you, and everything that was once yours, and everywhere that has marks of your having been there, will be wiped clean. It shall be as though you never existed. This is to ensure minimum fuss.

When you arrive, he will give you your Key, which is essentially a ceremonial thing that gives you dominion over the bit of the House that you've got and, correspondingly, the inhabitants who are assigned to this bit. Then you'll be a Morrow Day.

Why?

Well, simply put, after careful consideration, the New Architect has decided that you are all worthy occupants of the position, and if one fails, then, well, the next can take his place. For example, if you've been selected to be Friday, it means you've got a keen eye for aesthetics and know what people want and what you want, and how to find the best bits in between or whatever. The New Architect wasn't very clear on that part.

So that's all Three Lessons over. Have a nice day, and we hope we get a good Monday! If a candidate for Monday is reading this, at least.

This Paper printed by Far Reaches

* * *

Dear Albus,

Thank you for your reply. I regret that you will not be able to join this undertaking, and wish you the best at your school.

And yes, unfortunately, your author's name is J. K. Rowling, and your universe originated from her mind. Everyone loves Harry in that world which she lives in. What is to come is not for you to know. I apologize.

Yours,

Art


	2. Chapter 2

He is waiting in his room, silently, toying with his phone, when the New Architect (_call me Art_) arrives. It seems that he's the second person to take up the Morrow Day offer; the first is Lady Sunday, who's been with the New- _Art_ since he became God.

He never takes on a job without first being aware of everything related to it. It takes multiple phone calls, two arguments with his parents and one extremely embarrassing incident involving letters written on foolscap being torn up by a girl whom he fancies (fancie_d_) in public for him to become absolutely sure.

"All right, then," the- _Art_ says, and holds out a hand. He looks surprisingly more nondescript than how he thought he'd look like. Though he wasn't sure _what_ he thought God would look like. Certainly not a twenty-something billionaire sort, with all sorts of baubles hanging off his person. Nevertheless, he takes t-_Art_'s hand and they disappear on a- _what _is_ this?_

"This? Oh, it's the Stair. Just keep walking, and you'll be there in a bit."

So he does, two steps at a time, climbing every upwards. The steps are beautiful- white marble, complete with railings. Sometimes he looks to the side, sees other places. A massive factory smelling of chocolate, a train station with the number 9¾ printed on one pillar, Manhattan, all of which he recognizes- if not from real life, at least from books and television and the Internet.

But he keeps walking. It's really happening. There will be no time nor room for regret.

They emerge in a room. Sparsely furnished, but large- extremely large. "This is just your office, only just built," Art comments. "I didn't dare take any more liberties with the Maze apart from base functions. Your residence, your control room, whatever- you'll be able to create those with just a thought. This Demesne will be part of you."

Then he lifts one of those baubles- a baton, white with olive leaves- and swings it about. It changes into a rapier for a split second- only a split second- and then it's back. It's a Key.

"This is the Fourth Key," Art announces. "This is one of the Keys to my kingdom, one of the Keys to the great Firmament." His voice drops to a whisper. "This Key can destroy billions of lives with a mere swipe." He straightens up. "Use it well."

They walk to the centre, on Art's instructions.

"Do you promise to hold this Key, and with it, the Overlordship of the Great Maze, position as Commander-in-Chief of the Glorious Army of the New Architect, and all Denizens contained therein, until the New Architect commands that it be relinquished, and remain in trust until it is returned?"

"Yes."

"Do you promise to fulfil your duties as Sir Thursday to the fullest, never shirking, never faltering, always striving to maintain order and discipline in the House, the First, Second and Third Realms?"

"I do."

"Then I, Arthur Penhaligon, New Architect of the Firmament, do bestow upon you the title of Sir Thursday, the Fourth Key, and with it, the Overlordship of the Great Maze, the position of Commander-in-Chief of the Glorious Army of the New Architect, and all accompanying responsibilities and privileges. Accept your Key, Sir Thursday."

Art proffers the Key, passes the baton. He- _Sir Thursday_ takes it with both hands.

It changes once it touches his hand, every single particle moulding and twisting to fit his personality better, and with it, his very self.

Sir Thursday feels his body and mind melt away, imperfect though they may be, leaving his soul, no longer intangible but physical, the epitome of perfection, as perfect as a soul can be, the truest representation of what he was, is and will be. Everything he has learnt takes its place in the ringing splendour of the Firmament. He _understands_.

Sir Thursday looks down. The Fourth Key is now a cane, with a simple spherical head and a long, heavy cylinder extending down to touch the ground. He is wearing a red suit. His left hand tightens around the head of his Key, and with it, memories and _knowledge_.

He knows everything about his demesne in an instant. The space in his brain suddenly increases to infinity, battle tactics, weapon schematics, every single drill known to man (and some advanced non-human species too), and every nook and cranny of the Great Maze and every bureaucratic corner in the Army smashing together alongside whatever paltry information he's stuffed in thus far. It's _his_ demesne, now. _His_ army.

Another instant, and Art pats him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the House, Sir Thursday," and disappears on the Improbable Stair. He knows _everything_ now.

He waves a hand. A desk materializes, a chair appears and a bookshelf drags itself from the Void, complete with books. The Fourth Key taps out a rhythm on the floor, which has become polished mahogany, and with every throb, the Great Maze changes and moulds to his thoughts. In his mind's eye, each and every one of his Denizens, New as they are, snap to attention and salute their new immediate Lord, even though he has not shown his face yet.

He intends to, though. Soon.

Sir Thursday walks to his chair and sits down. He begins to write a letter. He stays writing it for a while.

* * *

A week later, after the Overlord of the Great Maze has fully taken over his demesne, and not just in name, there is a knock on the door, punctually. When he replies, "Come in," three Denizens- Art's choices for his Times, which he does not intend to dispute, since they _are_ clearly best for the job- march in and salute him, eyes shining with pride.

"Dawn, Noon, Dusk. Welcome and good day. I trust you've seen the changes I've wrought. Are they to your liking?"

"It's perfect, Sir Thursday."

"Thank you. Do get back to work- I shall be with you in a moment."

He stands up and grips the Fourth Key a bit tighter. Shoulders up, back straight- his red suit ripples and changes to armour.

The Cleargate creaks open and closes just as quickly. Without Tuesday, he can't get weapons. Without Monday, he won't be able to deal with the other Morrow Days. Without Saturday, he won't have sorcerers. Sir Thursday will keep himself content with minor skirmishes.

The Nithlings filter through the final gate. All distinguishing borders between tiles have faded, and behind the horde, the land surrounding the Great Maze extends in all directions, into the distance, everywhere but the side with the Citadel. Gates form everywhere. Art's reply appears in his hand.

_Got your message. It's done._

Sir Thursday smiles. His Key ripples and changes, and when it is done, there is a sword in his hand. He descends down to the front line and charges alongside his soldiers.

_To work, then_, he mutters, and charges into battle.


	3. Chapter 3

13

_Day 169 of the Great Work. Good stuff!_

_It's been a while since I started on the Machine, and I'm done- finally! Dark Aunts and cats have been really helpful with the blueprints and schematics. Damned puberty's taking its toll on my mental state. Anyways. To recap: Working on method to generate BR from within myself, and save the hassle in transporting it from the bowels of the earth. It worked on the cats, and now it __**will**__ work on me._

_Also considering _Art_'s proposition. He's queer, but if he's got that sort of power, I wouldn't mind being one of his lieutenants. I'd miss Patty- would bring her if I could, but everyone leaves their families sooner or later. My turn just might come a bit earlier, is all._

Emily Strange slid her pen back into her pocket and drained her cup of coffee. It worked its way down her swan-like throat as she stood up, cricking her neck from side to side to strengthen her resolve. About her feet, her four cats cavorted and danced, sprinkling black rock from their fur all over the floor. Not that it changed the overall ambience of the underground lab.

Her Engine took centre stage in the cavern, a towering monstrosity of metal and opaque glass. Emily entered gingerly, striding to the stool and sitting down before she had a chance to regret it. The software and hardware around her shrieked to life, black rock spilling from crevices, slopping onto her dress.

Miles made as if to enter, but it was out of her hands by then. The inner chamber was filling up with black rock, and the sedative was nearly done working its way through her system.

And then she saw no more.

12

Emily woke up about an hour after the experiment concluded. Leaping from the stretcher which the AI she'd installed into the cavern had placed her in, she took stock.

There wasn't any noticeable change, except a slight tenderness in her chest and buttocks, and her belly was slightly rounded, but-

_Glory! It's working._

She sat back heavily onto the stretcher and laid herself out as her body began to churn out black rock. All her willpower was directed towards forcing it out of her body, but- well- the Engine, it seemed, had other plans.

NeeChee hopped onto her arm, stroking it gently, and was followed immediately by the other cats, comforting her as the pain roared through her system and-

Emily looked down, juddering as surge after surge of liquid darkness flooded her insides. The pain was unbearable. Later, she would look back on the experience and decide that it was all right to have cried and screamed during the procedure, though they were not things that she normally saw herself doing.

Her relatively flat chest was plumping out, cup size cycling through a great deal of sizes. Her groin area was pushed upwards by an equally plump backside.

_Not what I expected, but at least-_

But her belly, though rounded, seemed to have far, far further to go.

By the time her abdomen was finished growing, it was huge, a sphere of pale flesh, skin stretching to breaking point as Emily squirmed and moaned on the stretcher. Her jeans popped, button by button, as did her jacket. Both had been just recently retrofitted and adapted to suit her purposes, annoyingly.

Ah, well- at least her T-shirt stayed, though her newly engorged torso strained it at the seams, and it barely covered half of her underbelly. (_A new term she'd come up with on the spur of the moment- she was so _fat_ she had an underbelly, damn it_)

She managed a squeal of indignation before her teenage hormones kicked in and she lay back down, devoting her rational thought to fighting back the tears that threatened to overflow.

Finally, she relaxed her limbs and lay back down.

"Now," -sniff- "is as good a time to let my hormones take over as any other, I suppose."

Emily lay on her back, on the stretcher, and closed her eyes. She did not cry (_tried_ not to).

Mystery took the initiative to hop off her bloated middle and prod a number on the speed-dial line in one of the blacked-out phone boxes in a secluded corner of the lab.

11

She woke up to Sabbath, the cat still sleeping on her vaguely more ample chest, the tears long dried. Her hair was messy. Easing the feline onto her shoulder, Emily stood up with some difficulty and began taking stock of her lab.

"Computer! Diagnostics, if you would."

Certainly, Ms. Strange_

31415926358701244361726452783452836504985638365273526728889238746293865_

Results show that physical frame has increased in mass by 15.35kg, from unforeseen side effects of Project: BR Engine. Minor build-up of BR in breasts and buttocks, totalling approx. 2kg. Remaining 13.35kg has taken residence in womb. BR appears to be behaving as an organic micro-organism would, multiplying rapidly. As space decreases, multiplication has slowed, although not stopped entirely, resulting in abdominal growth of approx. 2cm in diameter and weight gain of approx. 205g per hour, steadily decreasing at a rate of 5g/hour_

Theorize that since Ms. Strange is a pubescent teenager of 17 years (ie. at a relatively fertile stage in life) BR intuitively chose to accumulate in area associated with childbearing, thus producing such an outcome_

Also, if Ms. Strange decides not to extract BR, softer pouches of it may occur all over body, resulting in appearance distinctly resembling that of an extremely fat female of her age, until she literally explodes_

Recommended: immediate extraction of surplus BR via capillary tubes, although it may be possible to utilize innate telekinesis to remove BR through cut in flesh of breast and/or buttocks and/or abdominal cavity_

Next command, Ms. Strange? _

The teenager shut it off and placed her hands upon her belly experimentally, trying to recall how large it had been before her little catnap. Sabbath balanced on her shoulder and combed her hair tentatively.

Well. It _had_ grown.

"Look at you," Emily whispered; with a hint of brokenness, as she lifted Sabbath off her shoulder, "I'm less limber than you now."

She bent down, black hair falling over her face, and made as to set Sabbath on the ground, but failed. Her belly got in the way. Settling for letting the cat fall, and watching in satisfaction as it landed perfectly, she straightened up.

She knew she shouldn't be comforting herself (she hadn't done that a decade ago, and she wasn't going to start now) but _really_, if a boy was to observe her, she _was_ still pretty. Fairly slim, pale skin, straight hair, long fingers.

"Well," she said, "I suppose it's time to extract it."

Obligingly, Miles made a small cut to the underside of her belly. Emily hissed. A substance resembling pure shadow floated out from her abdomen and formed a little sphere in front of her face. Blood still dripped, though, and to the floor it went, since her abilities didn't extend to that.

As NeeChee made a little nick on her arse, and Mystery a brief swipe to her left breast, she gritted her teeth and continued the so-called purging.

10

It took a while, and when Emily had adjusted her clothing back, physical form back to what it had been pre-experiment (_mostly_), the New Architect stepped out of the shadows and off the Stair.

"Hello, Emily. You rang?"

"_WHAT- _no!"

"Oh. Then who could it have been?"

Mystery ducked behind Emily's legs.

"My cat. Damn it."

"Well, it seems you've got a _bit_ of a problem- wait. Oh, dear god. You _did _it!"

"Did what?"

"You- ah- that black rock is called Nothing, see. It's the basic raw material of everything- it's what nucleons are made of, and the even smaller bits. You can shape anything from Nothing. And- you've already got that power!"

"Why would you name it Nothing?"

"Eh?"

The New Architect paused from where he was pacing about.

"My predecessor named it as such. Now, I've got to say, I'm well and truly convinced that you can be my Tuesday. You're a spring all on your own."

"A spring- of Nothing? _Oh_. That pamphlet you gave me, uh, yes."

"Yes. This is- this is- incredible. You're officially the best option for Tuesday. So how about it, then?"

"I- uh- okay."

"Brilliant. I'll just leave you here first before bringing you to the Far Reaches- your new digs- so I can just get Friday and Saturday, all right-"

The New Architect continued rambling- and then suddenly, he wasn't. He'd disappeared. Emily stared after him. She raised a hand slowly and watched the black rock-_Nothing_ from her body rise with it again, thinking hard all the while.

_Will need to hide abdominal expansion wonder if possible to install an AI into the Far Reaches wherever that is __**patty**__ how long will it take to rise up and expand I wonder an hour or so __**mom**__ so I think perhaps a drainage system to ensure minimum embarrassment __**mummy**__ oh yes patty how will she deal with this __**she won't even remember me**__ oh whining garbflucks __**she won't remember me mommy mother OH BRICKING BELGIUM**_

Her cats swamped her, and, for once, Emily allowed them to pull her down.

* * *

Author's Note: Emily Strange is a character invented by a certain comic book retailer, if I'm not wrong. I've twisted her to my means, so to speak. NOT MINE.


	4. Chapter 4

Mister Monday (Mr., _not_ Mister- _that was his predecessor_) looked up from his laptop and stood as the elevator doors opened, in time for the arrival of Lady Sunday.

"Lady Sunday. Welcome to the Lower House."

"Eh, no need for that, Monday. Art's going to be showing us the final three Days. 'bout time, I'd say. First Tuesday, then Friday and Saturday, near simultaneously. Wants everyone to be at the- whatsit- the _Elysium_ as soon as possible. Yeah."

The Master of the Lower House stood up. "On the double, Lady Sunday." As she disappeared on the Stair, he crossed the floor of his office, stifling a yawn. A few minutes of jogging followed as he traversed his private weirdway (crossing three demesnes took time too). Eventually, he emerged into the warm sunlight of the Incomparable Gardens and snapped to attention at the left of Duchess Wednesday- the second to join, after Sir Thursday.

He was, admittedly, about to greet his superiors, but the New Architect (_didn't matter if he wanted them to call him Art, Monday preferred formality_) chose that point to appear with his charges.

"Lady Sunday. Sir Thursday. Duchess Wednesday. Mr. Monday. Greetings. Here are your final three colleagues."

Monday bowed and muttered epithets- _Lord of the Far Reaches, Ruler of the Upper House_-

"I'm not a Lord, Monday."

He straightened up. Evidently, the new Tuesday had scant regard for formality, perhaps even less than Lady Sunday (_not that he'd say so to her face_). And- she was, _hm_, accompanied by four black cats, which were regarding him with something approaching both hostility and condescension. He did not like it.

"All right, this is Lord Saturday, Lady Friday and Dark Tuesday. You might want to return to your demesnes, though I'm not in any position to frown on your social interactions."

The New Architect was too humble, really.

Duchess Wednesday, being an extremely social creature, approached Lady Friday and Lord Saturday, who, come to think of it, had both been glaring at Dark Tuesday when they arrived at the Elysium. Lady Sunday had joined Duchess Wednesday, leaving him with Dark Tuesday.

Sir Thursday was instead engaged in conversation with his Times already, slowly but surely distancing himself from the gathering. This was understandable- though Monday had little love for the man as a person, he had great respect for the way he had handled the Glorious Army, and was rather happy for him. After all, a Tuesday was finally here, as _Dark_ as she seemed to be, and the Commander-in-Chief would finally get his precious bombs, airships and tanks, produced with some proper finesse.

He decided to flee before Lady Sunday, who terrified him slightly, realized he was alone and doing nothing.

Mr. Monday discreetly tailed Sir Thursday through the Gardens, remaining neither too far as to be considered on his own, nor too close to be considered a part of the other Morrow Day's group, or, Architect forbid, be noticed by the man and his entourage.

Just as they disappeared on the Stair, he looked around and decided to take a break for once. Unfortunately, some Denizens called to him.

"Mister Monday!" He could hear what spelling they were using from how they said it- and, once again, he did not like it. Again, it was Mr. _Not_ Mister. He had half a mind to berate them, in fact, but they were wearing disorderly attire, which meant that they must have once been ex-Times, belonging to the Old Universe. Only ex-Times and the other Days (_and the New Architect, of course_) seemed perfectly fine with appearing in front of him in disorderly attire, or so he had assumed.

"Good afternoon. May I know- ?"

"We were the Times of your predecessor, Mister Monday. Dawn, Noon and Dusk." The Denizen speaking was Dusk, but referred to himself as Noon. Strange.

"Oh. I see."

"We wanted to warn you against idleness. Especially idleness."

"Oh?" Perhaps the New Architect did not remake them with much sanity, Mr. Monday thought, but said no more.

Dusk1 gestured at a nearby stone table. They sat down, and Noon- leaned forward.

"Mister Monday, our master- he was-"

"Afflicted by sloth, yes, I know."

"And he was tainted by the First Part of the Will, is that not so?"

"That's what I heard, yes."

"Well, we've been speaking to the New Architect, and we've a newer theory."

"Oh?"

"The old Architect, bless her soul-"

Dawn cut in, "-if she even had one-"

"-we think when she infected the Trustees, they in turn tainted their Keys through repeated use while they were afflicted, so to speak, but having never once been a true Denizen, the New Architect was not affected. But you-"

"Me?" He recalled the catnaps he had been taking. _Oh_.

"-you are a superior Denizen, but a Denizen nonetheless. The taint may have spread to you."

"Ah." Well, since the old Monday had been afflicted by sloth, the present Monday reasoned, perhaps he had not used the First Key so often. Would that not mean that it would have been less tainted?

"We came up with it when we saw Duchess Wednesday coming by the Gardens, and her eating so much, more than the three of us ever ate in one sitting."

Dawn gestured vaguely in the direction of the Elysium.

"And Sir Thursday, who sometimes yelled at his Times."

"So we thought that perhaps the taint had decreased, but some were still somewhat susceptible to it. And Duchess Wednesday is one such Denizen who might be most affected." Affected indeed. Hadn't even been in the House for half a decade and she was getting soft around the middle, he thought guiltily.

"I see, yes."

"So do be careful, Mister Monday."

"Yes, I shall. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Mister Monday. Do visit some other time, please."

Mr. Monday shook hands with the ex-Times and went on his way. He was lucky to have left nearly immediately, because seconds after his departure, Lady Sunday burst through the hedge, having been looking for him and Sir Thursday.

As he walked down the Improbable Stair, he stifled a yawn again and was so alarmed he stopped for a while. But he quickly started up again, so disaster was averted, thankfully. Not disaster exactly, but he was already slightly uncomfortable even in the Incomparable Gardens. It was an innate aversion to leaving his position, albeit for a while, he thought.

Mr. Monday returned to his office. He grabbed a cappuccino from the bar and stood in front of one of the glass walls comprising the nerve centre of the Lower House. Drained the cup, checked his Key (a pocket watch) and sat down.

To work.

* * *

1. He would later learn that that Denizen had once been Noon, having been promoted by the New Architect upon assuming the office of the Master of the Lower House, but before that, had in fact been Dusk.


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm _infected_ by a _moral_ _vice_?"

Mr. Monday nodded and tightened his tie. "Indeed, Duchess Wednesday."

"And you decided to talk to me _why_?"

He lifted out his Key and opened it, closed it, tapped the cover nervously. "You seemed to be most affected-"

"I am _not_ affected-"

"With all due respect, Duchess Wednesday, you've been, as it seems, eating more than three Denizens together-"

She placed her arms on the pine table. "Well, no Denizen needs to eat. I'm eating all a normal mortal would eat, _minimally_. If there's nothing else apart from normal paperwork defaulting, once more, I really earnestly apologize for my Denizens' problems and assure you that nothing else will go wrong."

"I- I see." Monday stood up, brushed imaginary lint off his cuffs and wiped his sweaty palms. "Thank you, Duchess Wednesday. I'll send you the, ah, paperwork."

"Thank you, Mr. Monday."

"You're most welcome, Duchess Wednesday."

As he disappeared on the Stair, she slid her reading glasses back on her nose and grabbed a number of Hershey's Kisses.

* * *

"I'll need your measurements if you aren't fitting into those clothes anymore."

"Thank- thank you."

"No problem. Just a small fee, is all." Dark Tuesday grinned, the crevices between her teeth a startling black contrast to the whiteness of her face and the redness of her lips. Her fingers tapped the table at a manic pace. She seemed to want to leave soon.

"Certainly. How much?"

"Couple of dollars or so."

"Excellent. Send me the bill, if you please."

"Just, er, let me warn you first, Wednesday, with all due respect. If you keep on _increasing_," –she motioned with her hands- "like this, soon you'll practically owe the Far Reaches tons of gold."

"Thank you for the warning."

"Eh, pleasure." Tuesday stood up, inclined her head, and disappeared on the Stair. Who was she kidding, the hypocrite? Her own attire seemed a tad ill-fitting.

She sat back in her chair and shoved a cheese block in her mouth.

* * *

"Brilliant day, innit?"

Lady Sunday greeted her as she stepped off the barge, leading her to two desk chairs overlooking the Gardens.

"As always, you're a brilliant gardener, Lady Sunday."

"Meh, just call me Suzy. It's what's Art always calls me, when, you know, we..." She made a suggestive, if not a bit rude, gesture with her hands. They both chuckled.

"So. How's, uh, life?"

"Good. You?"

"Great. Food in the Border Sea is good."

"I'll say." Sund-_Suzy_ looked at her weirdly; a bit critically, in fact. She suddenly felt a bit defensive.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just is, you know, you've been eating quite a bit."

"I know. Why?"

"Ah, nothing. Nothing! You ain't letting Nothing impinge on your Borders, eh?"

"Oh, no."

The conversation moved to more mundane topics. She ate two bags of potato chips.

* * *

"Well, Wednesday. We, ah, didn't know how to break this to you." Lord Saturday leans forward, spinning his Key in his fingers. His eyes are cold and, she thinks, amused. They are on the highest point of the Upper House, sunbathing on the side of a heated pool. She and Lady Friday are in bikinis, he in swimming trunks.

"But, well-" Lady Friday, whom she admires and thinks her friend, finishes touching up her makeup and sits back. The two Days look at each other, and, in unison:

"You're _fat_."

"Excuse me?"

Lord Saturday snaps his arm forward and slaps her abdomen with a loud smack. "_Fat_, Wednesday. An excellent energy storage compound, but, seeing as we _are_ Days, and Days have to keep up appearances, not particularly useful. If you understand my meaning."

She's nothing to say, just lifts her hands to her face and kneads it, trying to bring down the redness. Lady Friday chuckles.

"No one's actually told you, have they? Just hints at you to keep your self-control up and at it. Seems you haven't heeded it, not quite."

She looks down, through her hands, and, muffled, asks, "Why are you _doing_ this to me?"

"Why, Wednesday, we're _worried_ about you? Better to give you the hard truth than forever evade, eh?" Saturday begins to chuckle with Friday.

She looks at them one more time, red-eyed and sniffling, and disappears on the Stair. But the laughter stays. Her concentration falters, and she's on the deck of her boat.

"Duchess Wednesday?" Her Noon looks up, eyes wide. His dark colleague pauses as well, eyes raking up and down her exposed body. Their faces crumple.

"I was- haven't changed- oh, my _god_-"

She runs through the crowd, into her residence, not-quite-dripping but _unable to run_, oh, _sweet __**Architect**__ what have I DONE fat so __**FAT**_- and shuts the door behind her with a slam, sobbing full-on only then. Through her tears, a tub of Kit Kats. She lurches towards them and falls into them face first, inhaling the bars of chocolate.

Why not? She has nothing more to lose.

* * *

She is awoken from slumber by the stink of smoke. She slept the day before, eating all the way. Pointed the Third Key at whoever tried to intervene. Her dress is ripped. Her belly spills over her waist, and the plague of fat has spread all over her body, to her thighs, arms, chin.

"Go away. Leave me to my misery."

There is a faint scent of heat, burning, not-sorcerous heat, and in seconds, both the intruder and her food is gone. Wednesday sits up, red hair in a mess, fine bones of her face still visible, freckles standing out on her red face. There is a note on her table, scorched into the surface.

_Duchess Wednesday:_

_I need navigators._

_Sir Thursday_

She runs her hand through her hair, tries to restore it to some form of normalcy. Changes her attire, infuses her dresses with Third-Key-power to make them stretch. Her stomach growls. She drains a bottle of fine Garden wine and leaves it at that, though she is still hungry. She sits down at her desk, hair cleaned, cracks her knuckles. Points the Key at her bowl (_since when was it there_) and watches it fill with scrambled eggs.

To work, then.


	6. Chapter 6

Lady Friday looked up. Briefly, her eyes went wide, and despite having met the President (_as she called him_) before, there was a short moment of panic when she forgot her manners and appearance. Her Key pulsed beneath her hand and straightened nonexistent split ends, correct unblemished skin.

"Oh, my! Art! Do have a seat."

The New Architect stayed standing, and held up a hand. The chair dissolved, melted into his hand. "No. It's all right, Friday. No need for formalities. What happened?"

"Oh, Art, I was just thinking, you know we Morrow Days? Always thinking! So I thought, you know, why don't we have a little get-together some time? A little fun time out of the House!"

Art squinted. Lady Friday tittered nervously.

"Seems legitimate. You can do as you wish. I'll know anyways."

"Brilliant! So may I send out the invitations?"

"Sure. Also, you're authorized to drag certain Morrow Days out to have fun, as you say. All those below you, how does that sound?"

"Drag, Art?"

"I mean compel. Not much difference, is there?"

"Oh, not at all! Thank you, Art!"

They shook hands. Art's smile faltered briefly. Beneath the veneer of a hand compact, somewhere in the recesses of Friday's handbag, something dark and tainted and vindictive (_oh holy crap_) writhed, snapped, nipped at his consciousness.

"Oh, dear."

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Oh, dear."

"No- oh, never mind. I'll be just going now, then?"

"Sure! Goodbye, Art!"

"Bye."

Art disappeared onto the Improbable Stair and sighed. The marble around him dissolved into motes, whirling and sparkling. The being known as Death in the collection of First Realms constructed by the company called Marvel Comics spun around, and spiraled into millions of forms. He held up a hand.

"I created your creators, girl. Just wanted to say hi."

He disappeared to her (_its?_) annoyed hiss.

Why had he done that? Gah, too much stress.

* * *

He emerged into his private quarters, overlooking the Incomparable Gardens.

"Art!"

Suzy ran forward, green coat billowing outwards. She rugby-tackled him, and they fell sprawling out onto the grass of the Elysium.

When they finished kissing, he rolled onto his back and regarded the newest incarnation of her office and residence.

"Suzy, I know it's bigger on the inside, but a police box?"

"Aw, come on, Artie- you ain't heard of Doctor Who?"

"Huh."

"Something bothering you, eh?"

Art stood up. So did Suzy. With a perfunctory wave of the hand, a great gust of wind exploded from one corner of the Gardens, rustling the leaves of the trees and further messing up Suzy's hair.

"Yes."

"You mean Monday's old cronies? I've heard their idea."

Art looked at Suzy. She winked and kissed him again.

"Of course I've heard. Keys tainted, et cetera. Understandable. I myself find myself taking on the demeanor of a higher Denizen sometimes."

They sat down on identical easy chairs. Around them, the world dissolved into a swarm of color. Art gestured, and the scene resolved itself into a cozy nook by a fireplace, overlooking a hall filled with green, red, yellow and blue banners.

"Good you know, then."

"'Course I know, Art! You're not the only one who knows everything."

"Ouch."

"Sorry. You want some Aloe Vera?"

Art chuckled and ruffled Suzy's hair. Their chairs merged together.

"See, the thing is, I can't replace them, because then I'd have to start all over again. And who's to know what'll happen if we find a truly susceptible candidate?"

Suzy nestled her head into Art's neck. He waved a wand in the air and allowed silver to rush out, mutating into radioactive green, back to gleaming gold, twisting and turning through the air. One of his candidates (_hey, Albus!_) turned around, smiled slightly, and waved. In the crowd, he could distantly see one of the Gryffindors, a young man with a scar on his forehead in his first year in Hogwarts, scrunch up his face.

"It's good to be with you, Suze."

"Likewise, Artie."

* * *

Lady Friday finished writing the invitations on the cards and did them up, purple and pink, indigo-violet, her trademark color when she was... in… (_oh dear that was my old life and anyways didn't really fit in_) the Capitol. There. Bows and gears, fitted to their personalities.

"Here, pass these four to Sir Thursday, Duchess Wednesday, Dark Tuesday, Mr. Monday." A perfectly manicured hand passed over each of the invitations in turn. "I'll pass one to Lord Saturday and Lady Sunday myself, thank you very much." Messengers took them with both hands, scuttled away.

Off she goes again, her Times whispered. She heard, though, didn't they know? She _heard_. Friday smiled and disappeared on her elevator. Or was it a lift? They had different names for it in her old home.

"My love," Saturday whispered, when she arrived. One hand tossed the envelope onto his table, the other stroked his head. Perfectly coiffed hair grew more coiffed but less perfect.

_I came up with this idea. I shall decide where we go. If they agree, of course. I hope so._

Seven front-row tickets to every single tour on a certain Katy Perry's _Part of Me_ world tour lay in a specific package on her desk.

They were going to _love_ this_._


End file.
